veranda. A woman trained in the conventionalities of society could not have conducted herself better than did this American wife of an American farmer, and I was proud of her as if she had been my own mother. She had the rare tact of making her guests feel perfectly at home. Bishop had disappeared, but soon returned with an enormous glass pitcher and a tray of glasses. "Here's some new sweet cider for the ladies," he said, pouring out a glass and handing it to Mrs. Harding. "Pressed it out this afternoon, and picked out the apples myself. Try some, Miss Harding. Here's a glass for you, Miss----, blamed if I hav'n't forgot your name already," proffering a glass to Miss Lawrence, "but we don't mind a little thing like that, do we." "Indeed we do not," laughed Miss Lawrence. "How about this?" demanded Chilvers. "What was that you said about cider for the ladies? My friend Marshall is dying for a drink, and my throat is as dusty as his boots. Do we walk two miles and then choke to death? We don't want to lose Marshall like this." "You hold your horses a minute," grinned Bishop. "The ladies like sweet cider, God bless 'em, and I made this for them. If any of you fellows would like to try some real cider, the best that ever was raised in this State, come on and follow me. I reckon the ladies have seen all they want to of you for a while. Come on; I'll show you some cider that is cider." He led us around the house until he came to a cellar door, which he threw back and we followed him. When our eyes became accustomed to the dim light we saw long rows of huge casks, mounted on frames so that the spigots were eighteen inches from the floor. The air was deliciously cool. It was permeated with the subtle odour of apple juice long confined in wood. Films of cobwebs softened the sharp lines of the cask heads and faintly gleamed between the rafters where the light struck them. "Here's cider that is cider!" declared Bishop, proudly tapping on the heads of the great casks as he led the way into the darker recesses of the cellar. "I reckon, Bob," he said to Harding, "that it's a long time since you've had a chance to try a swig of real old Down East hard cider." "It's been a long time, Jim," admitted Harding. "How old is this?" "I've put in a cask every year since I took the place," he replied, "and that's more'n thirty years ago, and not a cask here but has cider in it." "Cider thirty years old!" exclaimed Chilvers. "You mean vinegar, don't